Chapter Seven

Grant looked up from the notes he was making on a spare, mildewed pad of paper he’d found earlier in a corner of the cabin. He was finally formulating some kind of plan, listing his assets and his liabilities, but between the howling wind, the snow swishing up into a pile by the window, and Solomon's loud argument with himself, any peaceful thinking he was hoping to attain was not going to happen.

“No, I told you!” The little hermit barked from his chair by the stove. “It's checkmate!”

Since their unconventional, impromptu meeting, Solomon had worked Grant harder than the younger man had ever driven himself, in his life before...all of this. Even as the wind picked up and the white flakes swirled around them in greater numbers, Grant was put through a punishing training regime both in his human form and as the massive white arctic wolf.

He also discovered that his new teacher had been alone for a long time.

A very long time.

Grant felt the plank floor shake as Solomon stomped out the door on some unknown errand. Probably to relieve himself. The frigid wind swept in waves of thick snowflakes that melted almost as soon as they landed, leaving damp spots on his blankets. He sighed, shifting again. Although he was grateful to be out of the storm, he had no doubt that given a moment of inspiration, Solomon would kick him back out for more demanding exercises and killer sparring

“Engaging a vampire or any predator in battle is a lot like chess,” the bearded man had told him, earlier that day, while he rigged up a rope ladder.

“You gotta think ahead,” Solomon stated, tying the end of the ladder to a rock. He squinted against the sunlight remaining in the increasingly cloudy sky, aimed, and tossed the rock up against a tall pine. It caught and lodged near the top, an impressive throw. But, Grant considered, if you could run faster than the average human, and stay warm even in freezing weather, some additional strength was bound to be expected.

He flexed his muscles, trying to anticipate what Solomon had in mind.

“Okay. Get up there.”

He stared at the little man. Was he smiling under his beard?

“What does climbing a tree have to do with fighting vampires? Or chess?”

Without another word, Solomon had grabbed him by the sole of his foot and thrown him up the tree as if he weighed no more than a small dog or a child. As gravity took hold and his upward trajectory reversed, Grant grabbed the ladder. The spiny hemp burned his palms, but held under his inertial weight.

“Keep going!” The voice from below was filled with laughter. “Come back down, I'll just throw you back up again!”

“This is bullshit,” Grant muttered. He was high enough to be nervous, but not above the tops of the nearby trees yet. Was this supposed to be some sort of lesson in humility? Teach him his place in the universe? What the hell did this have to do with chess? When he reached the top of the ladder, Grant looked down. He had never experienced vertigo, and he wasn't feeling it now, but being thirty feet off the ground without proper equipment was unsettling. “Now what?” he shouted.

The rope ladder was ripped out from under him with a mighty and unexpected tug from the bald, bearded man below.

There was no time for screaming. Grant grabbed for a few slippery branches but they broke under his weight. His chin hit a larger limb, smashing his teeth together painfully. His ears rang. A few larger branches broke his fall, but he still landed at great speed on the ground. The impact knocked the wind out of him.

For a full five minutes, Grant believed completely that he was going to die. Each breath felt like razors were shredding his lungs. His face felt flattened.

He heard Solomon belch. Clearly, the hermit wasn't concerned.

With effort, Grant moved first one lower arm, and then the other, bracing his palms next to his chest. He pushed up, and was able to move his legs under his torso. He was going to live, after all. Conscious of Solomon's eyes on him, he gritted his teeth and ordered each muscle to lift him into a standing position.

“That's good. You're definitely tough,” his mentor told him, swigging from a beer. “But you have to be faster. If I had been a vampire, you'd be a corpse now. They see you as a pawn on the board, expendable and nonthreatening. You have to be the queen. You gotta be able to move anywhere at any time taking advantage of the opening. Expect the unexpected.”

“You want me to be the queen?” Grant repeated, swaying slightly.

“You want to save her, don't you?” Solomon raised an eyebrow. “What are you willing to do? If you want to save your town, how are you planning on doing it?”

Grant straightened his shoulders.

“Back up the ladder, son.” Solomon burped lightly before tossing the rope ladder back up the tree.

Slowly, in great pain, Grant climbed back up the tree. By the halfway point, the pain had receded significantly; his lungs could fill easily, and the swelling had reduced in his face. “Fast healing,” he muttered, spitting out pine needles from a branch that kept swinging into his mouth. “I should have known.” What other surprises did Rayvin's little spell have in store for him?

A cardinal flashed by in front of him. The red wings disappeared quickly, a bright flash of colour in the darkening day. The wind was picking up and more low, grey, clouds were gathering. Still, Grant kept going, and at the top, he stepped off the ladder to cling to the tree itself.

“Good!” Solomon called up. “Now, jump!”

“Police training wasn't as brutal as this,” Grant stated, before bracing himself for a deliberate step into the void.

This time, his body remembered to roll when he hit the ground. He ended in a crouch, ready for action.

Solomon clapped slowly. “Not elegant, but the aim is survival.” He threw the ladder up once more. “Again.”

This time, Grant felt the tug on the rope when he was at the halfway point. He stepped onto a branch in time for the ladder to give way, swishing past him through the pine needles. “Keep going!” Solomon told him.

His muscles protested, but Grant found himself enjoying the physical and mental challenge. Snaking through the openings provided by the oddly spaced branches, he remembered the same feeling of adrenaline from completing obstacle courses at policing college.

Arriving at the top, he took a deep breath and relaxed for a moment.

The tree shuddered beneath him.

He looked down; to his horror, Solomon was already delivering the second blow from a gleaming axe.

Glancing around, Grant considered his options: at the angle Solomon was cutting, the tree would most likely fall to the north or the south; the nearest tree at left was a slim birch, and at right, a short spruce. Given the strength of the hermit's slices, he had less than five minutes to make a choice. He could already feel the narrow top giving way, tilting under his weight.

The slim, peeling bark of the birch tree slid under his palms as he landed. Behind him, the huge pine crashed down into the forest.

“Was that really necessary?” he panted, hopping fifteen feet onto the ground.

Solomon hefted the axe onto his shoulder. “You're not always going to have a stable surface. But you thought fast. Next time, try transforming when you jump. The vampire will expect you to attack like he does, hand-to-hand, and if you leap down a human, he'll know exactly how to counter.”

“I have a really bad feeling right now.”

“He won't be expecting a midair transformation.”

Grant shook his head, walking away. “That's crazy. I don't even understand how the whole thing works.” He looked up at the gloomy sky. “You triggered it, or something, before. But I thought it only happened at the full moon.”

Solomon crumpled his beer can in his fist, before tossing it into a box with other crumpled aluminum cans. “You're strongest at the full moon, for three days, and if you don't control it then you're just along for the ride. You didn't remember anything from your first transformation, because the wolf was in charge. But the more you practice, staying focused, the more your brain stays human even in animal form.” He slapped Grant on the back. “Changing or not changing, it's a matter of the mind. You gotta want it or you gotta feel it. If you're scared, or pissed, it's easier to change but harder to control.”

“Okay. I get that.” Grant replied, slowly. “But am I better at fighting as a wolf, or like this?” He gestured at himself. “And how do you know all of this? I'm taking an awful lot on faith.”

Wordlessly, Solomon unzipped his coverall and stepped out of his clothes. Grant heard the scratch of claws on the stone, and turned in time to get an arm up. This time, instead of transforming, he fought back, battling the massive timber wolf with a series of sharp blows to the ribs as it gripped his forearm. The animal snarled in response, but didn't let go. His teeth and nails were shredding Grant's clothes, and the lower centre of gravity made it hard for Grant to keep his feet. He bared his own teeth, pushing back. Just when he thought he had the upper hand, the wolf jumped, heaving at his shoulders, and he found himself flat on the rocky shore of the lake with slavering jaws snapping at his throat.

“Got another question?” Solomon inquired after he had changed back. He squatted beside Grant, evidently uncaring that he was still naked.

Grant ripped away the torn portion of his sleeve. “So what you're telling me,” he answered, slowly, “is to choose when to be the wolf.”

“And Bingo was his name-o.” Solomon stood and walked back over to his pile of clothing.

“But the question is still, how do I change?” Grant couldn't keep the frustration out of his voice.

“It's like I told you,” the bald man barked at him. “You love her, don't you?”

“I did!” The force of his own voice surprised him. “But it's the town—”

“Then fight for it!” Solomon glared at him. “Come on, kid, it's not that hard!”

Grant closed his eyes, knelt, and clenched his fists. He concentrated on becoming a wolf. The image of the white furry beast he had seen reflected back in the lake superimposed itself over a memory of Talbot. He and Jason, walking along the bridge, fishing rods over their shoulders.

“You look like you're trying to take a shit.”

Grant exhaled. “Well, you're a shitty teacher.”

Solomon stomped over and peered into Grant's face. “You won't have control until you let go. I know you're mad at her. But that means you care about her.” He poked Grant in the shoulder.

“Don't do that.”

“Hey, you came to me, buddy.” Solomon pressed closer. “Maybe you just want someone to whine to about how your girlfriend left you for a vampire. Do you ever picture them in your head? What he must do to her that you didn't or couldn't do?”

“Back off.” Grant ground his teeth. “I need to destroy a fucking vampire, not psychoanalyze my relationship history.”

Solomon laughed at him. “Fucking vampire. Interesting choice of words. So you're really not worried about measuring up?”

Growling, Grant took a swing. Solomon easily ducked and grabbed his arm, holding it behind his back. “You gotta let it go, son. It's okay to feel hurt. She fucked you over.” He chuckled as Grant wrenched at his grip. “Well, first she fucked you, and then she screwed you, and now she's fucking him.”

Roaring, Grant ripped away and aimed a low hit at the bald man's kidney. Solomon stepped neatly aside like a bullfighter, pivoting on his heels. Grant slipped on the rock and fell on his face. He cursed loudly; what had happened to his martial arts training? His sparring work for the police force?

“You're off-balance, boy,” Solomon advised him. “Who are you really mad at? Rayvin, the vampire, or yourself?”

The images Grant had been trying so hard to avoid came bursting into his head. He closed his eyes, lowering his head with the effort to shove them back into his subconscious, but it didn't work. The lanky, pale, vampire in bed with his beautiful Rayvin, his disgusting dead hands sliding over her rosy nipples. Her lazy, sensual smile bestowed on a crazy, murderous lecher. Her eyes, closing in ecstasy, while the monster penetrated her over and over...

Grant whipped his shirt off and unfastened his pants as his blood prickled and his bones burned with the rise of the animal in his skin.

“Good, kid,” the big man praised him. The white Arctic wolf answered with a growl, his hackles up, as he turned to face his mentor. “But can you do it when you're moving? Can you do it without me pissing you off?”

The wolf wasn't in a mood for talk. He ran at Solomon, snarling viciously.

Solomon blocked his first lunge, but the wolf skidded on his back paws and hurled himself onto the little man's back. Solomon swore at the top of his lungs when one of the wolf's claws caught into a piece of his beard. The man and the wolf did a quick whirling dance, until one large hand managed to wrap itself around foreleg; Solomon heaved, flipping the animal over his shoulder. The wolf whimpered when he landed solidly on the ground. He attempted to rise, but a bone protruding below his shoulder kept him down.

“See that?” Solomon chided. He stood in place, his hands on his hips. “You attack in anger, you die. Use the anger to change, but then remember who you are. You have to use that split second before you move to consider logic and strategy.”

* * * *

Grant rubbed the shoulder, wincing. It was still tender, hours later, matching the massive bruise on the other side of his back. But his new physique fast-forwarded the healing process, once he had relaxed enough to switch back to human form—and Solomon had forced the bone back into place. They had done it in the snow so the cold would dull the pain, with liberal doses of whisky produced from somewhere behind the cabin.

And then Solomon had put him back to work. He seemed to revel in the rising wind and gusting snow, as the day drew to its close. He coached Grant through an impromptu obstacle course running the circumference of the lake. The younger man had had to learn the route first, in a harrowing imitation of the children's game of follow the leader, but Grant found that having stayed on the burly hermit's footsteps once, it was easy to pick up the trail again.

Even easier, in his wolf.

“Faster!” Solomon roared at him, as he flashed by on all fours. “Come on, boy, you gotta think ahead!”

Up and over a fallen log. Around a narrow pass of cracked boulders. Across a deep ravine created by a stream of water, now almost frozen as the snowfall doubled in thickness. Even among the tree cover, it became difficult to see in the blizzard, but as the Arctic wolf, Grant's nose told him where to go.

Suddenly, a tree toppled in front of him; Grant swerved and ducked, barking once in the effort. He could see the grey shape of a huge timber wolf dodging the trees ahead, racing to beat him to the next leaning pine. He put on a fresh burst of speed, streaking over a cleft in the plateau of rocky cliff on the southeastern side of the lake; the icy black water forty feet below was nearly obscured by the grey snow squall, but his animal senses told him where the danger lay.

Just as they told him to expect a rockfall from the cliff behind the plateau.

That furry bastard. Grant felt the wind from the tumble of massive jagged blocks heaving past him; a few pieces were close enough to smack his still-sore shoulder and his flank. Their movement pushed him off-balance. For a sickening moment, Grant thought gravity was going to win once more, sending him over the edge for one more final plunge.

His will was stronger.

He used the inertia to swing his forepaws around in a rapid spin of nearly 180 degrees. Landing in a crouch, he waited to be certain of his centre of gravity. The splashes of the final rocks quieted, leaving him in a windswept silence that was punctuated only by the pounding of the blood in his ears.

The wailing of the wind was broken by a piercing howl from the top of the cliff.

Grant saw the outline of a grey timber wolf only once, briefly, before it was obscured by the storm. With his enhanced senses, it was enough time to observe the open mouth and lagging tongue of a wicked canine grin.

Grant took off after the beast.

Once more, they were playing follow the leader, only this time Solomon had enough of a head start to pause occasionally and knock down another tree. Whipping through the forest, always within sight but never close enough to attack, Grant gradually realized the real challenge.

It wasn't about catching up with the asshole.

To beat him, Grant had to be smarter. Think ahead.

He unleashed a fierce wolfy grin of his own, before changing course and loping up to the high ground.

There, on the edge of the treed bowl that protected the lake, Grant observed that his perpendicular route had given Solomon an impressive, nearly unbeatable lead. He was already halfway around the lake. But his goal was no longer to catch up with him.

He turned his attention to a near stand of rotten spruce and cedar.

They had grown in another opening of the rock, where the water rushed down every spring, but their roots had clearly never found enough purchase: several tall pillars were leaning at forty-five degrees, the circle of dirt around their bases lifting free and showing the vast array of tendrils meant to anchor them into the earth. Eventually, with a strong enough wind or covered with the heaviness of ice, they would go over and tumble down the slope.

With enough nudging, they would go over much sooner.

Grant paced over and delicately placed a forepaw on one trunk. The answering shiver told him how close the trees were to falling. Two paws, and the groan from the trembling wood was emphasized by a brief fall of collected snow. Grant shook his face free of the white crystals.

Solomon had rounded the bend and was approaching at top speed.

No—he was faltering. Had he caught the change in Grant's scent? Damn, he would have to take that into consideration.

Rapidly adapting a new course of action, Grant pushed on the trees, and then scrambled to ride them down the hill.

He felt like a lumberjack caught on all fours and swept away to shoot the rapids, but with luck or skill, he kept his balance. As the pile thundered through stands of young poplar and pine, knocking down everything in its path, Grant watched and waited for the right moment, while using every bit of his supernatural strength to avoid being pulled under the stampede.

The look of surprise and shock on Solomon's grey furry face when Grant appeared out of the swirl of snow was priceless. He used the momentum of the logs to make his leap across the distance, a stunt that would have failed otherwise. Hitting the older, slightly larger animal with the force of his weight resulted in both of them cartwheeling backwards, but Grant had the advantage. He kept his head and at the first slowing of their movement, he slammed his back paws into the nearly frozen dirt. His nails penetrated the shallow soil and scraped the rock below, but they held. With his front paws, he forced Solomon down and under.

Panting into his face, Grant saw the glow of approval in the old wolf's eyes.

Solomon changed back, without trying to escape. “Good, very good,” he praised. “I did not see that one coming. You learn quick. Your next move, of course, would be to rip the sucker's throat out.”

Grant ceased growling and eased off the little man. His hackles hadn't lowered, another move that his teacher noticed, and approved. “That's right, you never let down your guard. But we're done now. I'm gettin' hungry.” Solomon stood up and stretched, careless of the freezing wind and snow coating his naked, hairy body. “Last one to swim back has to make the supper!”

Without hesitation, Solomon turned and leapt off the cliff. Grant lifted a paw uncertainly, watching the man’s small form disappear into the film of snow covering the opaque waters. The lake was only a week away from the main freeze. Still, Solomon had so far proven to be as good as his word. Grant peered down and saw a small, pale, round object bob into view and begin moving smoothly northeast.

Closing his eyes, Grant bowed his head and concentrated. His muscles trembled and his nails scraped the rock. Exhaling slowly, he gave himself over to the moment. He listened to his heartbeat and felt a gust of wind buffet his body.

The next gust swept curtains of hard snow against furless skin.

Grant looked up from his crouch, posed like a runner waiting for a starting pistol, and then followed Solomon into the frigid waters below.

* * * *

Now, listening to the unceasing howl of the storm, Grant decided to put his playbook down. He was out of ideas. Taking on a coven of vampires was starting to seem more difficult than he’d originally thought. Other than the element of surprise, and the police-issued weapons in his home, he had his increased strength, his speed, and his endurance.

What if he could convince Solomon to come with him? Two werewolves against a group of five or more vampires might possibly even the odds.

The baking heat of the fire in the woodstove radiated nearly to the walls of the A-frame. Condensation beaded on the darkened windows facing the lake, interrupting the reflection of Grant’s naked torso with rivulets which puddled and became ice at the edges of the roughed-in wooden sill. A little light was provided by the low flame of a propane lantern hanging above the plank counter in Solomon’s kitchen, and the occasional yellow tongue flickering from the iron teeth in the door of the stove.

Before all of this, Grant would have been hard-pressed to find his way to the pitcher of water in the dim; now, however, he moved with as much confidence as he might have done in his own house. His senses were heightened in the dark. He was aware of Solomon stomping around outside, and in the swishing fall of snow against the building, it seemed as though he could count each individual icy crystal, if he chose. Otherwise, all was as silent as his weeks in the bush, alone, had been. In a way, it was comforting. No refrigerator hum or vehicle sounds, just the soft snapping and crackle of burning logs over the soft breath of the lantern.

It was...cozy.

Solomon had left the battered tin pitcher of water on the floor, in a back corner where the heat would reach less. He found an equally battered tin mug and filled it. In the silence, the water sounded unnaturally loud as it hit the bottom and sides. Musical, but jarring.

Like Rayvin.

The cup groaned as Grant suddenly clenched his fist. Where had that thought come from? He tossed back the rest of his drink, inwardly wishing it was whiskey or vodka. Anything, to avoid what he knew was coming next.

When would his brain learn what was good for it?

Grant set the cup down with more care than it needed, and paced the small space of the cabin. He rotated his shoulders, uncaring of the twinges of pain. He didn’t want to think about her anymore. Not her hair, the cascade of it slipping between his fingers. Not her eyes, flashing angrily at his refusal to back down. Pleading with him for understanding. Or her lips, flushed and swollen from his kisses...

“You’re gonna wear a hole in the floor.”

Grant crouched down by the stove and grabbed a poker. “I’m done thinking. And I’m done with the training. I need action.”

Solomon brushed the snow off his shoulders and closed the door behind him. “I can see that.”

“I can’t do it on my own, though,” he muttered, thrusting savagely at the white-hot embers. A ridge of coals fluorescent with heat burst into sparkling fragments under his poker. He turned to face his mentor, on the same level. “I need help.”

“Hell, that’s obvious,” Solomon replied pleasantly. He sat heavily in his chair once more, and moved a pawn. “No man is an island.”

“I need your help,” Grant emphasized.

“Buddy, I don’t need to go getting mixed up with a bunch of bloodsuckers,” Solomon grumbled. “I got all I need right here. I got peace and quiet, for the most part. Not about to mess with a good thing.”

“You got an army of supernatural, undead killers growing not two hours from here.” Grant stood and moved back to the window. He leaned his forehead against the glass. “You can’t tell me that you’re not going to be affected by that, at some point. You obviously go to town sometimes, for your bacon and your beer. We have to take them down, now, before more innocent people get hurt or killed than already have been.”

“See now, there’s your mistake.” Solomon had a massive kerchief in his hand, and noisily blew his nose into it. “You’re thinking ‘we’ when you really ought to be thinking, ‘yourself’. I don’t give a fuck about the rest of the world. They don’t give a fuck about me. We mind our own separate businesses, and that works just fine.”

“What did the world do to you?” Grant stared at him. “Everybody has to take responsibility some time, contribute to society in some way.”

“I contribute by staying out of it.” Spitting against the edge of the stove, Solomon shifted in his chair and examined the chessboard intently. “You stumbled onto my doorstep, asshole. I helped you get back on your feet, but that doesn’t make me a saint. I ain’t Yoda.”

“Okay, so the world doesn’t owe you anything, you mind your own business, but there’s a threat growing that’s going to destroy your peace. If you want to protect your privacy, you’re going to have to fight for it at some point.” Grant cracked his knuckles. “Might as well be sooner than later.”

“Or not at all.”

“You’re not listening to what I’m telling you.”

“I think we’re done here.” The little man moved a pawn and turned his board. “You know how to fight as your wolf, you got what you came for. There’s the door. Have a nice trip home.”

“I’m not leaving until you agree to come with me.”

“Guess your witch can have one more night of hot loving with the vampire, then.”

Grant gritted his teeth, willing to let that one go to make his point. “If I go by myself and get killed, I help no one. If we go together, we at least have a chance to get rid of this motherfucker for good.”

“Get your witch to spell him or something. She’s supposed to be your ally, right? So go get her, do another funky dance in the backyard, maybe it’ll actually do something this time.”

Slamming his hand on the chessboard, Grant bent over to make sure he met Solomon’s eyes. “Dammit, listen to me! I’m asking for one, maybe two days out of your life to do some good! I can’t do this, but I’m sure as hell not going to stand back and let the goddamned monsters have the town! I need help, and you are all that I’ve got.”

“Sucks to be you, then.” The beard parted to show a row of teeth. “Don’t mess up my pieces.”

“I don’t understand you. You have this gift—”

“It’s a curse.”

“Fine, then, a curse, whatever you want to call it. You could do something with it, other than hiding in a shitty cabin in the woods, make it worthwhile, but all you want to do is be crazy. What the fuck for?”

“It’s none of your business,” Solomon growled. “You go and do what you like. I couldn’t care less. She’s probably already dead anyway. You wanna find out, be my guest. Stay and shut the hell up, or get the hell out and leave me alone.”

“Is that what happened to you?” Grant saw a flicker in his mentor’s eyes, a slight change in his expression. “It is, isn’t it? Some woman fucked you up, so you’ve been hiding out here ever since, avoiding everything.”

“That’s none of your business!” Solomon roared, upending the chessboard. The pieces clattered against the walls and the stove.

“Hey, you expect me to trust you!” Grant shouted back, striding forward as the hermit rose to his full height. He was small, but incredibly imposing in his fury. Grant met him in the middle of the room, toe to toe. “I came here because I had some crazy goddamned dream, no other reason. You tell me to do what you say, because you know it all. You’re a werewolf, too. A shapeshifter. I have done everything you asked, because I need your help to set things right. But I need more than teaching, I need you as my partner. No, my leader—that’s what wolves do, right? They form packs—”

Solomon bared his teeth. Out of the corner of his eye, Grant saw movement; instinct made him dodge the first right, but experience allowed him to block the left uppercut.

“No!”

He made to grab Solomon’s shoulders, and found the other man’s hands in their place. Grunting and rasping with the effort, Grant refused to back down even as his knuckles cracked under the older man’s grip and he was forced to his knees.

“Leave me alone!”

Solomon moved with surprising speed, twisting away, but before he could complete the sleeper hold on Grant, the former police officer had his shoulder into the little man’s chest, forcing muscle into sternum with all of his strength. Grant felt his body tremble, and his vision wavered. He refused to submit to the change this time, and ground his jaws in the effort to stay human.

“It’s...none...of...your...” Solomon huffed, attempting to hook his leg around Grant’s ankle.

“Bullshit!”

Grant fisted his hands in Solomon’s shirt and swung him around. The two men hit the angled wall; it groaned under their combined weight.

And then Solomon had him in the air. With a mighty bellow, he rushed Grant forward and slammed them both into the opposite side of the cabin; this time, the solid wood shuddered and gave in a cracking explosion of splinters and snow.

Grant found himself on his back in the storm, facing Solomon’s fury.

* * * *

“Your woman changed you because she wanted to protect you, right?”

Grant paused in wrapping a gauze bandage around a long scrape on his arm. He wouldn’t need it for long, as he could already feel the itching tickle from the new skin beginning to form, but until that happened, he didn’t want blood stains on his new old shirt.

“You could say that,” he responded cautiously.

Solomon had put on a new pair of trousers, but was content to sit shirtless in front of the woodstove, nursing a beer. The purple bruising around his right eye had receded somewhat in the last twenty minutes, but swelling gave the hermit a bit of a lopsided look.

To the left of them, snow was steadily building against the tarp both men had nailed into place over the hole they’d made in Solomon’s cabin. Grant hoped that it would hold until the storm ended, and he could help repair the damage.

“Well, my woman changed me because she was pissed.” Solomon threw back his head and chugged down a good half of the bottle. He swallowed, belched, and fixed Grant with a gimlet eye. “That’s what happens when you get involved with a witch. First you get screwed, and then you get really screwed.”

Grant thrust his arms into the sleeves of the shirt but didn’t bother buttoning it. The A-frame was no longer holding as much heat, but the snow piling against the tarp was providing an insulating effect.

“How long have you been a werewolf?” He still had a hard time with the word. Taking the fresh bottle offered by the hermit, Grant sank down slowly on the bench next to him and stretched his bare feet toward the fire.

“‘Bout thirty years, give or take,” the hermit grumbled. He tilted back the bottle for a short swig. “God, she was beautiful. Took my breath away every time I saw ’er.”

“So what happened?”

Solomon sighed, twisting the bottle in his hands. “We got into a fight. I’m not proud of it. She found out she was pregnant, and I didn’t want to be tied down.” He drained the bottle and rose to put it in the pile of empties.

Grant opened his mouth to say something, and decided against it.

“See, I figured since we weren’t married or anything, I was still free to come and go as I pleased.” The hermit crouched down to sift through one of the boxes in the corner of the room. “I loved her, but I was stupid. Been regretting it ever since. Anyway, she tells me she’s expectin’, I tell her she’s gonna have to do it on ’er own, she gets pissed and starts tossing crockery at me, hissing like a cat.”

Grant shifted uncomfortably. It sounded familiar.

“I accused her of gettin’ pregnant on purpose.” He turned to glare at Grant. “I thought she was trying to trap me. I wasn’t sleeping around, mind, but I liked the idea that it was still possible. Didn’t want to feel like I’d settled, if you know what I mean. I wanted adventure. Didn’t want to be stuck with a kid.

“Told her I was a lone wolf.” Solomon turned back to his rummaging. “Well, she took me at my word. Never believed that she was a real witch, that magick was really possible, until that moment. I didn’t have enough respect for her, even though I loved her with my whole heart. I regret it to this day, and not just because of what she did to me.”

Grunting as he rose, Solomon came back to his chair holding a small Polaroid in a frame.

“You don’t know what you’ve got until you’ve lost it, right? Yeah, well, that’s true.” The little hermit cleared his throat, staring at the picture in his hands. “Don’t be stupid like I was, Grant. It ain’t worth it, having so much pride you can’t see the woman for who she is, or see how good your life is. I lost her. I lost the chance to be a father. Hell, I dunno if she even had the baby, or if the baby grew up. If it was a girl or a boy. The last night I was there, we were fighting, and she points her finger at me. ‘If a lone wolf is what you think you are, then that’s what you’ll be until you figure it out,’ she shouts at me. Felt like I’d been hit by a firecracker, though there wasn’t any fire or sparks or anything. I packed my stuff right after that, headed to my hunt camp for some space. Changed for the first time a few weeks after that, in the dark of the moon.”

“So...how did you learn about all the stuff you’ve been telling me?” Grant finally twisted open the cap on his drink.

“Experience. Time, experience, and the occasional run-in with another shifter like us.” Solomon shrugged. “I’d compare notes with whoever came along, and the facts added up after a while. Here, this is what she looked like. Her name was Rowan.”

Grant nearly choked on his mouthful of beer.

The woman smiling at him in the faded photo, with her arms around a much younger Solomon—there was no mistaking the shape of her eyes, the lush lips, the sweep of flaming hair.

He was looking at a woman who was the spitting image of Rayvin Woods.